


Gratification Comes In the Doing

by catatonic1242



Series: Inspired By Their Curiosity [2]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Polyamory, Slash, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catatonic1242/pseuds/catatonic1242
Summary: Wherein Misha joins the cast of Supernatural and finds that Jensen is a pain in the ass.Cockles: An Origin Story.





	Gratification Comes In the Doing

**Author's Note:**

> _“The gratification comes in the doing, not in the results.”_ \- James Dean
> 
> Written for [SPN Kink Bingo](http://spnkinkbingo.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Once again, I blame and thank [dimples-of-discontent](https://dimples-of-discontent.tumblr.com/), and I apologize that it took me so long to make these revisions. She is an amazing beta. Any mistakes that remain are solely mine.
> 
> Thank you, internet, for coming through for me when I Googled “18th century euphemisms for sex.” [This thing is amazing.](http://timeglider.com/timeline/962856e2d593150e) I think my personal favorite is “play at couch quail,” but I also really love “wick-dipping.” 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr.](https://catatonic1242.tumblr.com/)

_July 8, 2008_

“I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing,” Misha groans into the phone. He lies back on the hotel bed, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He’s had a headache for a couple of hours now, the kind that he gets from being around people - new people - all day. There’s nothing in this world that he likes less than being the center of attention. Which is comical, given his current career choice.

Vicki scoffs lightly on the other end of the line. “That’s why they call it ‘acting,’” she says. It’s advice, not criticism, and the lightness of her tone reflects that. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”

Misha rolls his eyes and sits back up, pulling his toiletry bag off the nightstand. He roots around in it, desperately looking for Advil and cursing himself for being too nervous about getting through customs to bring anything harder. There are a million and one things in the largeish bag, and when he can’t find what he’s looking for, he dumps the entire contents out on the comforter. “I mean, I legitimately don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing,” he answers. 

Again, Vicki chortles lightly. “That’s still why they call it ‘acting.’” 

Misha can hear her typing in the background and realizes she’s only half paying attention to the conversation. “You’re not being helpful,” he only kind of whines as he finally finds the pills and dry-swallows three, then lies back down.

The typing stops as she focuses wholly on the conversation. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was a Be Helpful conversation,” Vicki explains. “I thought we were doing Tough Love.”

It would be condescending coming from anyone else, but his wife doesn’t _do_ condescension. She never has. One of his favorite things about her is that she always assumes everyone is equal, even when they’re not as smart as she is. He’s certainly not as smart as she is. And, yes, he’s well aware that he married up, but he’s not complaining. And she certainly never makes him feel dumb. Yes, sometimes she’s oblivious or a bit tactless, and people find that off-putting, but people find _him_ off-putting, too, so they’re well-matched. “Vick…” he intones. He really just wants to whine a bit more, if he’s being totally honest.

She gets it. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, the script calls for Castiel’s voice to shatter windows. So I figured my voice should be deeper, kind of raspier. _I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition_ ,” he imitates himself. “But now I think that might have been too weird.”

“I’m sure it was fine.” 

She’s trying to soothe him, but it’s not her strong suit. He appreciates the effort, anyway, and takes advantage of the opportunity to continue his complaining. “It didn’t feel fine. My throat hurts. And the other guys were looking at me like I had three heads. I actually think that one guy wanted to stab me for real, not just in the scene.” He distinctly remembers how Jensen Ackles had looked askance at him the first time he’d spoken in character. Misha had actually run the back of his hand over his own mouth checking for leftover food or crumbs - the look the guy had given him was just that weird and disgusted.

“Sometimes _I_ want to stab you.” She says it almost like a question, like, _Does that make this better_?

It really doesn’t. “Not helpful.”

“Sweetheart, I know it was great,” Vicki offers. “I’m sure it was. And look, you were worried about being the new guy, you’re just letting that get to you.”

She’s not wrong. She’s very seldom wrong, especially about him. And once she’s pointed it out, some of the tension in his head starts to loosen. “I know. I miss you,” he says softly.

“I miss you, too. Relax, okay? You’ll be home again before you know it.” She pauses, then adds, “Would phone sex make it better?”

“Yes,” Misha chuckles. “It would make it much better.”

*****

_July 15, 2008_

It’s hard, being The New Guy on set. These people have known each other for years now and he feels like an interloper. They all have a shorthand language, a jargon that enables them to get the job done quickly and efficiently. 

Despite what he thought would happen, it’s been a relatively pleasant experience. Relatively. He assumed that the pretty, pampered stars of this show would have imparted a kind of vibe around set. A kind of “we’re-the-cool-kids-and-no-you-can’t-sit-here” feeling. Misha remembers reading a couple of blind items that were clearly about Jared and Jensen fucking, even, and he’d assumed that would add to the awkwardness. But no one has made him feel like a stranger - it’s actually the opposite. Everyone wants to talk to him. Everyone wants to hear new stories from someone. Misha assumes it’s like this with all of the guest stars - the new person rotating in gives them something to talk about other than Jared’s epic farts - though they do still talk a lot about that, and he can’t say he’s looking forward to experiencing one. 

Misha puts on the show they want, acts as jovial as he can while secretly wishing that he could just stand there, silent and awkward. Silent and awkward is actually less awkward for him than making his way through exhausting small talk. But no one will let him just stand there. Everyone has been nice and kind and welcoming. 

Everyone except Jensen. Jensen just seems pissed pretty much all of the time. When Misha’s being uncharitable, he presumes it’s because Jensen is the Pretty Boy who is used to Getting His Way and doesn’t like The New Guy. And Misha isn’t feeling particularly charitable right now. Not after three takes of this scene. Castiel is supposed to be the badass, is supposed to intimidate Dean. But Jensen just won’t back down. 

It’s kind of absurd, really. Misha’s standing on set, wearing an ill-fitting trench coat with his hair sticking up in fourteen thousand different directions, and he just wants to get the shot in the can and be done so that he can go back to his hotel and be _alone_. But Jensen has lowered Dean’s voice to match Castiel’s (Misha is ninety percent certain that he’s being mocked) and he’s spending too much time in Misha’s personal space. In other words, he’s being an aggressive prick.

So when Phil pulls him aside and whispers, “Antagonize him,” Misha doesn’t have a problem doing just that. Misha starts rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands and fully channelling his own exasperation into Castiel. When Jensen steps into his space, Misha refuses to back away. He uses the tension between them to put a spark behind his eyes, a grit in his jaw. The words in the script come more easily the more irritated he is, so he lets everything he’s feeling wash over him and uses all of it for Castiel.

All of it. Including the fact that every time Jensen steps into his space, Misha can smell him. And he smells fantastic. Earthy and masculine but not overpowering - like laundry dried on a line in the yard. Which is fucking ridiculous, because the clothes came from wardrobe and were probably last washed and dried in giant industrial machines nowhere near actual sunshine. But it’s a wonderful thing, the way Jensen smells, and Misha finds he doesn’t mind refusing to back away. He finds he _does_ mind the other, inappropriate thoughts that he’s having, so he squashes those down as far as he can, completely disinterested in examining them.

Soon, the scene becomes a duel between them, Jensen moving forward and Misha refusing to budge. Finally, Jensen steps into his space again, and not only does Misha stay where he is, he takes his own step forward and narrows his eyes to deliver his line. Misha knows he’s won when Jensen - _Dean_ \- finally averts his eyes. 

“Got it!” Phil calls. “Print that one!”

Misha gives himself a mental high-five and smirks just a little. 

*****

_August 22, 2008_

Jared’s been watching him really closely and Misha’s not entirely certain what to do about that. It’s like having the attention of a puppy - a really _giant_ puppy. Like a two hundred pound St. Bernard puppy. Misha doesn’t find it hard to actually imagine puppy!Jared climbing up into a lap and vigorously licking someone’s face. 

It’s the first time they’ve really been in a scene together, actually had to exchange lines, and Misha is grateful that Castiel gets to be the calm one to Jared’s overeager Sam. It actually helps him to get into the right headspace, the fact that Sam bumbles over himself and stumbles on his words. It’s easy for him to provide a counterbalance to that. He doesn’t even really have to think too much about it, and he’s silently grateful to Jared for making his job easier. He can slip right into character by playing the opposite of Sam, by being self-assured and serene. By the time they’ve run it a few times, Misha is feeling better than usual. 

So when Jensen - when _Dean_ \- slides into his personal space, Misha, as Castiel, takes it in stride. He stares right at Jensen - at _Dean_ , Jesus - and gives a pitch perfect reading of his line. It actually makes the other man take a step back and lick his lips in defeat. Misha gets a small thrill out of seeing that. He’s surprised at himself, at the pride that he feels. 

When they cut, Jared is still watching him. The expression on his face is one of curiosity that has been satisfied. If Misha knew him better, he’d ask what, exactly, Jared had been curious about. But he doesn’t, so he stays quiet as the crew repositions the cameras. 

*****

_August 23, 2008_

Misha wants to go home and just be quiet for a while. There isn’t enough quiet on set for him - everything is always a flurry of motion. No one is ever just still. It wears him out just being around that much frenetic activity.

“He asked me to dinner.” Out of nowhere, actually. Misha and Jensen weren’t even having a conversation at the time - they were just sitting on their respective park benches waiting for the cameras to roll again. The scene didn’t require either Dean or Cas to stand or walk, which meant that the - stress, anxiety, strain, _whatever_ \- between him and Jensen wasn’t as noticeable. It was still there, sure, just not as obvious without them each trying to dominate the other’s space.

“Like a date?” Vicki asks.

Misha’s first and only instinct is to laugh. A date? With _Jensen_? “I… No. He has a girlfriend.”

“You have a wife,” she points out nonchalantly. Misha can practically hear her shrug over the line.

He appreciates her openness, the fact that it’s even something within Vicki’s consideration set. “You know what I mean,” he says. Misha considers Jensen, really considers him - he’s had a decent amount of time being up in Jensen’s face and has certainly noticed the girlish curve of his lips, the long eyelashes, the translucent green of his eyes. He’s an attractive guy, unfortunately. The problem is that _Jensen_ knows he’s attractive. He’s an attractive jackass. “No, the guy is as straight as an arrow. He said we should get to know each other.”

This time, Misha can actually hear Vicki physically shrug. “It’s not going to kill you to get out of the hotel.”

“You don’t know that.” Vicki is always encouraging him to ‘lighten up,’ to ‘go be social.’ He doesn’t like being social. Except when he’s with people who have known him for years, being social means being ‘on.’ It’s tiring. The last thing he wants to do after being ‘on’ all day is to go out and be ‘on’ at night. Especially with someone who so clearly doesn’t care for him. Misha feels like the girl who has just been asked to prom on a dare.

Vicki sighs. “Hon…”

Before she can get any further, he cuts in. “I already said no, anyway.” 

*****

_October 21, 2008_

He’s sitting outside the craft services tent, off to the side in a low-traffic area, nursing a bottle of water and rubbing his temples. 

It’s been a long day and it’s only 3pm. He’s spent the last couple of hours working on the blocking for a big fight scene. He’s been pushed and manhandled around the set by the director and his marks have changed at least a dozen times. 

So he’s tired, and he’s got a headache. Which may explain how Jared sneaks up on him - how else do you explain a giant St. Bernard puppy taking you by surprise? “You look terrible,” Jared says. He’s got a disappointed look on his face, like he was planning a prank but decided against it when he actually saw Misha.

“Thank you?”

“Dude,” Jared says. He looks Misha up and down for a second, considering, then says, “Come on.”

Jared starts walking before Misha can even protest. He doesn’t particularly want to get up, has no desire to make conversation, but being rude to Jared is kind of unfathomable - the guy is just so open and hopeful and almost adorably naive. So Misha quickly slugs back the rest of his water and hustles to catch up. 

By the time he’s closed the distance, Jared has already climbed the steps to his own trailer and flung the door open. Misha slowly follows him inside, a little wary.

Jared’s sitting on the couch packing a bowl. He looks up at Misha, then nods at the other side of the couch. Misha closes the trailer door behind himself and perches on the edge of the proffered cushion, looking around. Jared’s trailer is worthy of a 16-year-old boy; there are multiple gaming systems, several remote controlled vehicles and an array of dirty glasses stacked in the sink.

He looks back when Jared nudges his arm, offering him the pipe. “You smoke, right?”

“God, yes.” Misha doesn’t actually intend to say that outloud, at least not with so much enthusiasm, but it slips out. Jared just laughs.

20 minutes later, his headache is gone.

“So, I farted so _hard_ and he didn’t even crack a smile. Nothing! Seriously, he can be so… serious. Seriously.”

Jared’s got the giggles and it’s infectious. Misha snickers along with him, the last of his tension finally uncurling. “He is so serious!” Misha agrees. They’re talking about Jensen, of course. He’s not entirely certain how the conversation ended up there (or even how it started, frankly), but it’s nice to just unwind for a minute.

Jared lets out a long puff. “One time, he started telling me about this whole backstory he had in his head about Dean’s gun. It was half an hour long, I swear! And when he finished, I looked at him, hiked up my sleeve,” Jared illustrates for Misha, pulling his t-shirt sleeve up to his shoulder and pointing at his bare bicep. “And I said, ‘what about _these_ guns?’” He dissolves into hysterical laughter and slumps back into the couch.

The story isn’t even that funny, but Misha can’t help but chuckle. He can just picture Jensen, that _serious_ look on his face, his pretty lips (they are _really_ pretty) curled into a bit of a pout, an adorable frown line crinkling between his brows (did… he just think Jensen was _adorable_? That was apparently some very good Canadian weed.). He imagines Jensen would probably clench his jaw before balling up his fist. Which begs the question, “How hard did he punch you?”

“I had a bruise on my arm for four days!”

The look on Jared’s face is so outraged that it gets Misha giggling again, which makes Jared laugh harder than he had before. When the laughter finally dies down, Jared takes a deep breath and looks Misha square in the eye, an abruptly serious look on his face.

“He’s a good guy, though. You just have to get to know him.”

*****

_December 15, 2008_

“Does he want to fuck you?”

Of course that’s what he would get from the story. “Oh my god, Darius,” Misha answers. He loves his best friend, but the guy can be so crass sometimes. Which is usually one of the reasons why he loves Darius, but for some reason it’s rubbing him the wrong way at that particular moment. Maybe it’s because of Darius’ unflinching ability to go from zero to sex in under three seconds when Misha hasn’t said _anything_ that would merit that response.

At least, he doesn’t think he has.

“Okay, wrong question, I know, everyone wants to fuck you,” Darius says, somehow managing not to snicker. “The right question is: Do _you_ want to fuck _him_?”

“Really?” It’s such a ridiculous question, because it’s out of the question. “He’s straight.”

“I’m straight,” Darius counters. 

Misha rolls his eyes. “Tell that to your dick.”

“You know, I do keep telling him that, but he doesn’t listen. Anyway, do you want to fuck him?”

Misha had waited outside the restaurant for Jensen, and when he’d arrived, Misha had held the door for him. And Jensen had let him order the wine, though what Misha really knew about wine he could fit into a thimble. But when he ordered the second-cheapest bottle on the menu (advice he remembers hearing somewhere), Jensen had smiled at him and it had looked like an affirmation. “Everyone wants to fuck him. He’s so damn pretty,” he answers, remembering how Jensen’s eyes had looked darker in the dim light of the restaurant, framed by those long lashes. And he remembers the rosy color that had seeped into his cheeks after they’d finished the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second.

“You’re not everyone. And since when do you care about ‘pretty?’ My stunning beauty aside, that is.”

“I don’t… care about pretty.” He remembers meeting Jensen’s eyes across the small booth as they passed the food back and forth between them, the food that Misha had ordered in some random moment of trying to… _impress_ Jensen. It wasn’t particularly good, brains and heart and whatever the hell else had been on the plates, but that didn’t seem to matter much. Jensen had eaten with enthusiasm, almost appreciation, all the while talking animatedly and gesturing with his utensils.

“Weak,” Darius interjects. “And you’re dodging the question.”

They’d laughed a lot, Jensen smiling across the table at him with those movie-star perfect teeth and Misha smiling back, both of them draining their glasses. The red wine had colored Jensen’s lips a faint mulberry, and Misha couldn’t stop himself from staring. And when Jensen had brought up Vicki’s book, he couldn’t stop himself from answering his genuine questions. It wasn’t even uncomfortable, surprisingly - the topic tended to be awkward with most everyone else. It had even been awkward with Darius the first time they’d discussed it, long before they’d kissed or slept together. But with Jensen, it hadn’t been the least bit strange. Misha, for some reason, found himself wanting to share. 

He realizes there’s silence on the end of the line, so he says, “What was the question, again?”

“Oh my god, you do want to fuck him.”

Misha shakes his head firmly, a strong denial on the tip of his tongue. What comes out, though, is, “I don’t want to… _fuck_ … him.”

Darius gasps - not a melodramatic, mocking noise, but a genuinely startled inhale. “Jesus Christ, you want to make sweet, sweet love to him, don’t you?”

“Why do I even talk to you?”

“Fuck if I know.”

*****

_January 16, 2009_

The reviews aren’t good. 

Misha doesn’t pity Jensen - that’s not the right word, not at all. He can’t even relate to what it must be like, getting into acting so young and trying to build a career after having been pigeonholed, tucked neatly into the Pretty Boy box. He’s moved from soap operas to teen dramas to genre TV, scrapping and scraping to “make it.” 

It must be hard, then, to try to be a serious actor when the scripts that come your way are… well, when they’re _My Bloody Valentine 3D_. He can certainly understand that - _Karla_ wasn’t exactly Misha’s finest moment, but a man’s gotta eat.

No, it’s not pity. It’s something like sympathy, but more than that. Misha’s not sure what the right word would be. Whatever the feeling is, it makes him feel like there are rocks in his stomach.

Misha brings a book to set with him that day. 

He knows it’s gonna be a hard day - just the scene alone, Jensen - _Dean_ \- in a hospital bed, losing faith in himself, that’s going to be heavy. Add the reviews on top of that and, well… he can guess that Jensen won’t be in the mood to talk. Not that Misha wouldn’t listen - of course he would. But just in the short time he’s known Jensen, he’s figured out not to push.

So he doesn’t. Jensen doesn’t say a word to him, and Misha doesn’t try to make idle chat, either. He sits and reads his book. Well, he tries to read his book. Problem is, he keeps getting distracted by Jensen looking over at him. 

It starts off slowly enough, just the occasional side-eye. As the day drags on, though, he becomes more and more aware of Jensen staring at him. It’s distracting enough that Misha finds himself turning the pages of his book without reading them and then having to flip back to find his place. It takes everything he has not to look over and just talk to him.

So when the script calls for him to say, “Are you alright?,” it’s a question he genuinely wishes he could ask Jensen, not Dean. Especially when he starts crying. 

Misha’s pretty sure it’s just acting, but he also knows it’s rooted in something. Frustration, disappointment, all of it. He can see Jensen, really see him, in that moment. He looks vulnerable. Misha suddenly feels the odd compulsion to reach out a hand and comfort him. 

Just as he is considering it, Mike calls a wrap on the day. Misha opens his mouth to finally say something, he’s not sure what, but _something_. Before he can get one syllable out, though, Jensen is up and hustling away, dragging a wad of fake wires and tubes behind him. 

*****

_February 6, 2009_

“ _Friday the 13th_. It’s better than _House of Wax_ , but not much,” Jared says, offering the spliff to Misha, who takes it while giving him a skeptical look. Jared’s got the giggles, as usual, so he continues, “Oh, come on, have you seen _House of Wax_?”

Misha takes a long hit, holding the smoke for a few seconds while trying to decide whether or not to lie. He chooses not to. “No. Sorry.” He passes the weed back to Jared.

Jared takes it, laughing. “You’re not missing anything. Paris Hilton,” he says, by way of explanation. 

Misha makes a face, then offers, “I played a serial rapist and murderer in a movie that almost got banned in Canada.”

From the expression Jared’s wearing, he didn’t fully follow that sentence. That’s confirmed when he very brilliantly asks, “Huh?”

Misha snickers. “We’ve all made shitty movies. And TV shows. Fuck, I just did _Nip/Tuck_.” As soon as he says it, he wishes he could unsay it. He hasn’t been around very long, but it’s been long enough that he knows better than to give JarPad any kind of incriminating information about himself. The last thing he needs is to find giant posters of him, legs over his head, his ass in the air, hanging up in the craft services tent.

“No shit!”

In a hurry to change the subject so Jared doesn’t cling on to the _Nip/Tuck_ slip, Misha says the first thing on his mind. “It doesn’t seem to bother you as much as it bothers Jensen.” He’s not sure why Jensen is the first thing on his mind, or why it seems to be like that pretty frequently lately. Well, if he’s totally honest, he does know why, but he figures he was honest about not seeing _House of Wax_ , so he can be dishonest with himself about this.

Jared takes another long hit. “He’s an actor,” he offers.

Misha thinks about that for a long minute. He’s high, sure, but not high enough to understand what Jared’s telling him. “Um…” he says, gesturing between himself and Jared.

“No, dude, I mean, he’s an _actor_.” Jared emphasizes the word, as if that makes his explanation totally clear.

It really, really doesn’t. Again, Misha points to himself, then points at Jared, then says, “Um…”

Jared rolls his eyes and finally elaborates. “I mean, he wants more than… _this_ ,” he says, raising his hands as if to indicate the entire set and not just the inside of Jared’s trailer. “Not that there’s anything wrong with _this_. He just… he wants more.”

He thinks about that, really considers it. It doesn’t feel like Jared’s talking about fame when he says ‘more.’ It feels like he means something deeper, somehow, something bigger. “And you don’t?”

“No, man. I mean, I used to think I did, but last year…” Jared trails off, and the silence lasts long enough that Misha is about to ask, but then he finally continues, “It got hard. So now I’m just happy with this.”

Misha frowns. “And Jensen’s not? Happy, I mean.”

“Yeah, no, he’s _happy_ , it’s not like that. It’s just…” Jared stops, but it’s clear he’s thinking. He runs his hands through his hair, and then his face lights up. “You saw him with Kim, right?”

“Yeah, kinda. I mean, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, it was my first episode, I didn’t know…” Misha feels like he owes Jared an apology. He knows, now, how much Kim meant to everyone on the show, but he didn’t get it during his first episode. He wasn’t really focused on the director at the time. He didn’t even notice the connection Kim shared with Jensen.

“No, it’s okay,” Jared rushes to supply, smacking Misha on the leg. “But he would light up around Kim. Like, every word the guy said was gospel. I honestly think he might have taken notes. He looked up to the guy, like wanted to make him proud. He’s serious about this stuff, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He does know, now. He understands, it wasn’t about being The Pretty Boy. It was about living up to expectation put on Jensen by industry, by family, by friends. It was about protecting this show. It was about taking it _seriously_ \- not himself, but this thing that they built before Misha ever showed up.

Misha’s deep in thought about that when Jared clears his throat and looks at him pointedly. “So, _Nip/Tuck_?”

High as hell and in a hurry to stay away from that particular topic, Misha rushes out, “I can’t believe I thought you and Jensen were fucking…”

*****

_March 10, 2009_

On the other end of the line, Vicki sounds amused. “Trouble?” she repeats back, looking for Misha to elaborate.

He feels a little like a ridiculous child admitting to misbehaving. Of course, with Jared, it was misbehaving. There’s not another word to describe a man in his 30s being egged on by a co-worker into throwing rocks at a plate glass window. Well, okay, there are other words, but Misha’s going to go with ‘misbehaving.’ He admits, “I broke a window.”

She’s rolling her eyes, he knows it, can hear her amusement through the phone, even when she’s not speaking. “How did you…” she cuts herself off and asks instead, “Do I want to know?”

It’s not a particularly entertaining story, when you get down to it. Jared was hurling rocks in the warehouse where they were shooting, and Misha decided to get in on it. That’s all there is to tell, he tells himself. “Jared broke one first,” he points out in his own weak defense. “Well, technically just one pane.” Jared had been the first and then Misha landed a lucky hit directly next to his.

“And if Jared jumped off a bridge?” Vicki jokes, laughing. She’s not scolding him - she knows what it’s taken for Misha to break the ice on set, he’s told her all about it.

Misha chuckles. “He would have probably already pushed me off first,” he says. He’s sure he would be strapped in somehow, but yeah, Jared would definitely push him off a bridge. In good fun, obviously, but if anyone could plan and pull off that prank, it would be Jared.

“Mish, were you doing the thing?”

He doesn’t need to ask. He knows exactly what she’s talking about. There’s this thing he does, a thing that, in his defense, a lot of people do. Vicki tells him he’s more obvious than most people, though. He doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s just… he’s aware of his surroundings, maybe more than most people. And he’s aware of when people are watching him, even when they’re trying to be subtle (or think they’re being subtle). And so when he’d seen Jensen watching him from the other side of the set, maybe Misha had become a little more animated. It was possible he’d become a little more interested in what Jared was doing. Maybe he smiled more, laughed harder, put on just a bit of a show. He can admit that to Vicki, because he also knows who she is asking about. “Maybe. A little.”

“And?” Her tone is one of genuine curiosity, nothing more.

“He took the blame.” To be clear, Jensen had joined them well before they’d broken a window. He’d sauntered over (it was definitely a saunter) and casually joined them like he’d been there the whole time. He never threw a rock himself, just planted himself firmly between Misha and Jared and alternated handing rocks to them and pointing out targets. 

“So, you’re all 16 years old,” Vicki says lightly.

When Jared finally broke the window, it was on a throw that had gone a little wide of its original target. So of course, Jensen had laughed, slapped Jared on the back and dared Misha to hit the same spot. It was his shot that finally garnered them the unwanted attention. When Misha was called out, though, Jensen had stepped protectively in front of Misha and claimed responsibility, offering to pay for the window. “I was thinking more like 11.”

“No. 16,” Vicki insists. “Because that’s when 80% of males achieve Sexual Maturity Rating 5.”

Leave it to Vicki to cut to the chase. Sometimes, it’s hard (heh) being married to a sex historian - she always sees right through him. “Basically, you’re calling us a bunch of horny teenage idiots?”

“Horny teenage idiots who won’t do anything about it. I still love you, though.”

Misha sighs. They’ve been over this half a dozen times already, but his wife is like a dog with a bone on some topics. Unfortunately, this is one of those. “He has a girlfriend, Vick. And she’s gorgeous.”

“I know, I finally Googled her. She’s smokin’, babe. You’ll have to introduce me sometime.”

*****

_April 7, 2009_

He’d been a little drunk when he called Darius, and even after letting him talk about his favorite subject for half an hour (Darius’ favorite subject is Darius) Misha is still a bit buzzed. Buzzed enough that, at this particular point in the conversation, he feels like he can maybe acknowledge that, “Okay, so, maybe he’s not totally straight.” Of course, he’s talking about Jensen. He’s talking about Jensen and the wrap party and the way that Jensen had circled him the whole night, never letting Misha out of his sight. Hell, he hadn’t even let Misha get more than an arm’s length away. Not that Misha had wanted to - but even when he walked a few feet away for another beer, Jensen had been right behind him. 

Granted, Misha can admit that he did the same; every time that someone seemed likely to drag Jensen away, Misha found a way to grab his elbow or throw his arm around Jensen’s shoulder, keeping him close. It was like they were alternately playing the moth and the flame. 

“Is he gay for pay?” Darius asks. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” It’s an offensive question, yeah, but Misha also knows what Darius means by it - everyone’s at least a little bit gay with beer goggles on. He doesn’t think that’s the case with Jensen - he’s not even sure if the guy was drinking, though he did always have a beer in his hand when Misha looked at him. But he never saw Jensen actually take a drink. The only thing he seemed to be using his mouth for was smiling at Misha. Still, it’s a possibility, and Misha acknowledges that. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I can be serious. So, he’s horatian?”

What the fuck even? At first, he doesn’t even think he’s heard Darius right, but the more he puzzles over it, the less any option makes sense. “I… I don’t even know what that means.”

Darius laughs uproariously. “I thought you knew every sex term in the book!”

“So did I. At this point I think you’re just making shit up.” He’s fairly certain Darius is screwing with him, as Darius does. Once, Misha had found an entire list, two pages long, of obscure 18th-century sex terms that Darius planned to work into their conversations by pretending they were names of ships. His favorite one had been ‘Bushy Park.’

“Whatever, Google it, it means bi,” Darius says dismissively. “So he’s bi? Misha, did he come out of the iron closet?”

Misha runs his hand down his face and lowers his voice to the best semi-threatening tone he can muster. “Darius, I swear to god, you can’t just invent phrases…”

“We’re going to have to get you a vocabulary lesson the next time you’re in town. Can’t have you praying with your knees to the sky without knowing what it means, angel.” 

“I swear to god, Darius, I will hang up on you.”

“Moving on. What happened?”

“He was… He touched me. A lot.” It could have been the drinks, the relief at being done with the season, at getting to go home and sleep with his beautiful girlfriend whenever he wanted to. Still, the firm press of Jensen’s hand on the small of his back and the way it had lingered there long after it was strictly necessary gave him hope that it was something else. Even now, Misha can feel how warm Jensen’s palm was through his shirt.

“Did he happy touch you? Misha, are you burying the lede?” Darius sounds excited on the other end of the phone, like a child with a new toy. Misha can just picture him practically bouncing up and down with glee.

“No, not like that,” he rushes to clarify, explaining, “Like, my elbow or my shoulder. Or my back.”

There’s a sad exhale from Darius. “That doesn’t sound as gay as I would like.”

It’s not quite as gay as Misha would like, either. Oh god, he’s still drunk. “You had to be there.”

“You’re lucky I’m not or I would have told him that the two of you need to slip in Daintie Davie…”

Before he can get another word out, Misha presses the ‘End Call’ button and tosses his phone aside.

*****

_July 10, 2009_

He’s walking back to his trailer when he hears heavy footsteps behind him. Misha turns around to see Jared hustling toward him. He stops and waits for him to catch up. “Hey, man,” Jared says breathlessly, reaching out to pat Misha awkwardly on the shoulder. “I hope I wasn’t going too hard on you back there.”

Misha frowns, considering. But he has absolutely no idea what Jared is talking about, so he not-so-smartly asks, “What?”

Jared ducks his head. He seems… oddly remorseful? But Misha can’t think of anything he should feel bad about. Sure, they’ve just had a long day, but that was mostly because Jim can’t figure out how to maneuver his wheelchair without nearly falling out of it. “I just, I’m only joking with that stuff. You know that right?”

It takes a long time, but Misha finally figures it out. During Misha’s coverage, Jared had been particularly gassy. Before this job, he wasn’t sure that people could _actually_ fart on command, but if anything, he learned that lesson today. That said, it’s not particularly unusual. Hell, Misha was actually warned about Jared’s farting before he ever arrived on set for his very first episode. “The farting? Jared, I’m aware that you are a walking human fart joke, yes.”

He looks relieved and lifts a hand to pat Misha on the shoulder. “Okay, so we’re cool?”

Misha doesn’t feel cool. Jared coming up and apologizing for farting a lot during his coverage is… not normal. It’s so not normal that he has to assume it’s part of some larger gag, so he narrows his eyes at Jared and gets right to the point. “What is going on? Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I just… Look, Jensen said…” Jared trails off. He stares at the ground for a long second, then looks back at Misha. Suddenly, his face lights up, like a realization has just dawned on him. Misha doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s just realized. “You know what? Nevermind.”

“Wait, what?” He feels like there was an entire conversation somewhere that he missed out on. 

“Nevermind, man, it’s all good,” Jared says. He turns around and hustles away just as fast as he’d appeared. 

Misha is utterly confused. “What the hell was that about?” he mutters to himself. 

*****

_July 31, 2009_

His back is still bothering him. It’s not enough to stop him from doing most things, and it’s certainly not keeping him away from work, but standing for too long makes him sore. Of course, if that is the least of what he has to deal with after the accident, he’s grateful. He’s been trying not to think about it, focusing on the pain so that he doesn’t have to think about what could have been. 

It’s never a call that your spouse wants to get, that call from the ambulance that you’re on the way to the hospital. But Vicki, ever calm, hadn’t panicked. Even when she’d arrived to see how banged up he was, when she’d watched him go through MRIs and CAT scans, she kept her cool. At least in front of Misha. He knew her well enough to know that she’d been shaken at least as much as he was, if not more. She just didn’t show it. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Still a little sore” Misha admits, “but it could be worse.” He scratches absently at a still-pink scrape on his elbow and offers, “At least I don’t have scabs sticking to my clothes anymore.” He’d been a disgusting mess for the entire week afterward and he’d spent most of his time standing around naked because wearing clothing and sitting and showering were all just too uncomfortable. It hadn’t been his best week.

He hears her small huff over the phone line. “Thank heaven for small favors. That was really unsexy, you know,” she jokes. He’s grateful that they can finally joke about it. “It was actually less sexy than the time with the...”

He cuts her off before she can mention the time with the spoon, a ‘mountain spring’ candle and fourteen grapes. That makes him blush every time she brings it up and he can already feel the pink starting to creep up his neck. “Oh, sorry my almost dying killed the mood for you.”

“You should be,” Vicki scolds. “Don’t do it again.” She’s dead serious. His bike was trashed beyond repair, and she’d actually suggested that it would be best for her if he waited a little while before buying a new one. Well, ‘suggested’ is probably not the right word - ‘demanded’ is more like it. And she’s not the type to make demands. At least, not outside of the bedroom.

“I’ll try not to, dear. You know, Jensen told me the same thing.” Demanded as well, frankly. Misha hadn’t wanted to come out and say anything about the accident to Jensen, but it was obvious enough by the way he had to jerk away when Dean threw his arm around Cas. It was embarrassing, how he’d flinched, but the hurt look on Jensen’s face had Misha scrambling to explain before he was even asked.

“Did he?” she asks curiously. 

“Yeah. Actually, what he said was, ‘Never fucking do that again,’ but the intention was the same.” Almost the same, anyway. After Misha recounted the story, Jensen had raised his index finger and made his demand, an angry look on his face. Misha remembers furrowing his brow as Jensen turned and stalked away. It was confusing. Why was Jensen angry? It was almost as if… but it wasn’t, Misha was sure.

“I’m sure it was. Oh, that reminds me,” Vicki says. There’s a mischievous tone to her voice, almost like she’s been waiting a while to casually insert what she’s about to say into the conversation. Misha realizes that’s the truth as soon as she says, “Danneel called me.”

*****

_August 6, 2009_

He’s had a hell of a day. 

Most of the day was spent watching Jensen play two different Deans, sometimes making the switch between them in the span of 30 seconds. Misha’s not even entirely certain how he keeps track of 2009 Dean versus 2014 Dean, but Jensen never gets confused. He just goes seamlessly from one emotionally messy character to the other, never forgetting that they’re similar but still incredibly different.

It’s funny, he can actually _see_ the difference in Jensen’s face when he’s playing the different Deans. The older one has a harder set to his jaw and an anger in his eyes that the younger one doesn’t. Misha can get completely absorbed in watching him work, and he does during one take, completely missing his cue and stumbling over his line. After that, he’s sure to focus as much as he can - he doesn’t want to be the one responsible for fucking up Jensen’s performance. 

It’s the last scene of the day, and they’re together in the truck, just Cas and one Dean. Of course, it’s not the Cas that Misha is used to playing - it’s the fucked up future Cas, almost human, fallen angel with a beard and a drug problem. He actually gets to say “bang a few gongs before the lights go out.” So, he figures, whatever he does, it’s probably impossible to screw it up. He hopes. It’s a tough act to follow, what Jensen’s been doing.

The front seat of the truck is small, and Misha’s regretting the bullshit crystal deodorant he’d decided to wear when he was trying to get into character as hippy Cas - it’s not effective, and he can smell himself in the cramped confines. He smells musky and kind of sweaty, and this close to Jensen, Misha is sure he can smell it, too. He wonders if that’s why Jensen keeps forgetting his line, if the shift in energy between him and Jensen is because of his smell or because of what Vicki had told him.

And then, out of nowhere, in the middle of the scene, there’s a knee knocking against his own. He’s startled, but he covers it with an in-character laugh. When Steve calls cut, he doesn’t move his leg; rather, he presses back, not too hard but just enough to be intentional. It’s warm in the truck, not a lot of airflow, and he can’t help but peek over at Jensen, admiring the curve of his jaw in silhouette. Misha can imagine pressing his lips to the bolt of that jaw, the way the very slight stubble would feel against his tongue… A lone bead of sweat make its way down his back, between his shoulder blades until it finally is absorbed by the waistband of his jeans.

He hopes it’s not obvious when he presses a palm down hard against his crotch, willing his erection away. 

Somehow, he makes it through the scene, though it’s late when they finally wrap. He’s uncomfortably warm, so he reluctantly opens the door and climbs out of the truck. He considers saying something to Jensen, but he’s not certain what, exactly, would come out of his mouth. Misha doesn’t totally trust himself after three hours crammed in that truck so, at a loss for anything else to do, he heads for his trailer. 

Misha takes maybe five steps before he realizes Jensen is following behind him. “Hey, man, I’m sorry,” Jensen calls out, sounding slightly out of breath.

That’s puzzling. He doesn’t stop walking, but slows down enough to allow Jensen to pull up next to him and match his strides. “For what?” he asks, studying Jensen’s face as much as he can out of the corner of his eye.

Jensen kind of shrugs but plays it off, tucking one hand into the pocket of Dean’s jacket. He gestures faintly with the other. “I was… I was distracted, I’m sorry, I wasn’t giving you much there, man.”

Oh, shit. He doesn’t think the scene was any good. Misha runs it back through his head as much as he can remember, but other than his own one-time flub, he can’t find anything particularly objectionable. He slows down further, letting Jensen take a couple of strides in front of him. “I thought that was good,” he answers tentatively.

“No.” He falls silent for a second, then the words seem to tumble out of Jensen’s mouth like a jumbled heap. “Yes, I mean, you were good, that’s not… You were great. I was kind of a mess, though. I’m just sorry, you know, long day.” It dawns on Misha, the earth-shattering realization that Jensen is _nervous_. 

There’s a look on Jensen’s face that Misha can’t quite decipher. He knows what he hopes it is, remembers what Vicki told him, everything they discussed. Still, a small part of him wonders if somehow this is just one very long, elaborate prank that Jared has orchestrated, designed to end with naked pictures of Misha pinned to every surface in the prop warehouse. What the hell, time to throw caution to the wind. “I know. Do you want some coffee?” 

Jensen nods. “Yeah, you know, I think I would.”

Alright. Misha can only hope that he actually does have coffee in his trailer - he generally gets his from craft services, but he’s got a coffee pot, so there’s probably coffee in a cabinet somewhere. Either way, he gets up to the door first and then holds it for Jensen. He takes a quick survey of his own trailer, making sure there’s nothing incriminating sitting around, but there’s thankfully no dirty underwear on the floor or crusty socks on the arm of the couch. So, he gestures for Jensen to take a seat on the couch, which he does, while Misha walks over to the coffee pot on the counter and offers up a silent prayer to the Coffee Gods.

He opens a cabinet - nope, wrong one, that’s where the bowls live, and he knows that - then another and is quietly triumphant when he finds a half-empty bag of pre-ground coffee. It’s probably crap and god knows how old it is, but coffee is coffee. He slides the ancient coffee maker toward him on the counter and pours the grounds in. 

“How do you take it?” As the question falls out of his mouth, Misha wishes he could walk it back. Coffee, coffee, coffee, he reminds himself that they’re talking about coffee. Smooth, Misha. How does Jensen take his _coffee_?

Jensen blinks. 

Shit. Misha tries again. “Your coffee? How do you take it?” Stop saying it like that.

“Oh, oh, yeah,” Jensen answers, “Yeah, just a little milk, if you have it.”

“Sure,” Misha responds, grateful that he knows he’s got milk and it’s not even expired. What he doesn’t have are matching coffee cups. He huffs just a little, but pulls two mismatched mugs from the cabinet, a pint of milk from the small fridge and a spoon from a drawer. 

Once he’s got everything set up, there’s nothing to do but stand. Or sit. Sitting would probably be less awkward. Misha makes his way to the couch and sits against the arm, not too close to Jensen but close enough that he can imagine the air crackling between them. 

Jensen hasn’t said much, not since he’d apologized for whatever he was apologizing for during their last scene. “So, you were saying, long day?” Misha asks, leaning into the sofa and throwing an arm over the back. He hopes it looks casual, like buddies hanging out, catching up, even though they’ve spent all day together. He angles his body toward Jensen, crossing one leg over his knee.

Jensen doesn’t answer, just nods. 

Misha stares at him openly and counts to twenty, just so that he doesn’t come off too eager or pushy when he finally answers, “Okay.”

“Sorry, man, I think I’m just tired,” Jensen finally says. He closes his eyes.

While Jensen has his eyes closed, Misha bites his own bottom lip hard enough to sting. He reaches out, tentative but steady, and lands his hand on Jensen’s knee. Jensen opens his eyes and they look at each other, before Misha licks his lips and says, his voice almost a whisper, “So, Danneel talked to Vicki.”

“Do… what?” 

He’s not sure if Jensen didn’t hear him or didn’t understand him or if maybe, just maybe, everything had been weird and twisted and he’s gotten all of this wrong. But he’s come this far, he figures - it’s worth knowing. It’s worth knowing. Misha moves his hand up Jensen’s leg and repeats himself. “Danneel talked to Vicki.” 

*****

“I think,” Misha says, “that the coffee is ready.” He can smell it in the air, the mixture of coffee and sweat and sex. He puts one hand on his own knee to stand, but the way Jensen throws his head back and laughs loudly stops him in his tracks.

“It can wait,” Jensen says. He slides bonelessly and gracelessly down the couch, landing on the floor next to Misha with a thump and a chuckle. Jensen’s pants are still around his ankles, tangled up with his boxers, so Misha grabs his knee and turns him a little, just enough to help pull the jeans all the way off.

When he’s free, Jensen slides closer, closing the space between them to kiss Misha sweetly on the mouth. Misha and runs his fingers against the too-short hair at the back of Jensen’s neck, enjoying the texture beneath his palms. Jensen darts out his tongue, seeking entry to his mouth, and Misha eagerly opens for him, groaning in surprise at Jensen’s willingness to taste himself on Misha’s tongue. They kiss like that for several long moments. 

Jensen throws an arm over Misha’s bare shoulder, curling it around his neck and drawing Misha closer. With his free hand, he runs a palm down Misha’s chest, stopping to tweak one firm nipple, massaging and rolling it between his fingers. Between the taste of Jensen’s come that still lingers in the back of his throat and Jensen’s tongue in his mouth, Misha’s dick is throbbing.

Jensen runs his palm down from Misha’s nipple to where he’s straining against the fly of his jeans and presses down, tracing Misha’s length against the denim. In response, Misha grunts against those beautiful lips, and when he leans back a little, Jensen looks at him. His green eyes are dark and hooded, lips parted and kiss-swollen, and it makes Misha harder against his zipper just looking.

He reaches a hand down to undo his own fly, but Jensen swats it away gently, holding eye contact as he unbuttons Misha’s pants and lowers the zipper, finally reaching in to free his cock from the confines of his pants. Misha gasps gratefully as Jensen seats a firm hand around him and strokes from base to tip.

“You don’t have to…” Misha groans, the words leaving his mouth in a flurry. He doesn’t want this to feel like some favor that Jensen is obligated to return, doesn’t want to receive if it’s not also pleasurable for the giver.

But Jensen is brooking no disagreement, a look of determination mixed with lust on his face. When he parts his lips to speak, Misha cannot help but stare at how full and moist they are. “I want to,” he answers, his voice a low, guttural almost-growl. “Let me.”

“Mmmm,” Misha answers. The spark in Jensen’s eyes is enough to quell any protest he may have, enough to convince Misha that this isn’t just two co-stars relieving stress after a long day. Later, he’ll put a word to what it is, but for now it’s enough to know that he’s wanted, too.

Jensen’s strokes are slow at first, not tentative but teasing, long lingering touches that trace every inch of Misha’s cock. He explores all of the exposed skin with his hand, and when he seems satisfied that he’s memorized it, he pushes Misha back a bit and tugs at his unfastened jeans.

Misha scoots his ass up, planting one hand on the couch to support himself as Jensen tugs his pants and boxers down with one motion.

On the floor, sprawled out in front of Jensen, Misha feels exposed until his warm hand closes around Misha’s cock again. Then, all of his insecurities suddenly vanish as Jensen slowly takes him apart. He presses Misha back, back, until he’s flat against the carpet with Jensen on top of him, straddling his thighs. Jensen’s intently watching Misha’s cock in his own hand. The look on his face makes Misha dizzy, so he closes his eyes and covers his face with his arm.

“No,” Jensen says immediately, reaching down and circling Misha’s wrist with his fingers, pulling it away. “Let me see you,” he demands.

When he opens his eyes, Jensen smiles at him. Misha can’t help but grin in return. Jensen starts to pick up the pace with his hand, stroking down to the base of Misha’s cock and then all the way back up, flicking his wrist at the top. He sets a steady rhythm until Misha can’t help but follow with his hips, thrusting up with every downward pump. Misha would be embarrassed by the noises coming out of his own mouth if he had any control over his rational mind at all. But looking at Jensen, watching him bite his lip as he concentrates, all coherent thought is gone. He’s vaguely aware that he might be babbling, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Jensen leans forward, his hand still stroking Misha, and kisses him, then works his way across Misha’s stubble to his neck, where he nibbles and sucks at the skin below his ear. Misha’s breath catches in his throat. Jensen tightens his grip and bites down harder and, with that, Misha spills all over his hand. Jensen works him through it until he’s almost too sensitive, then pulls off and rolls down onto the floor next to Misha. 

He presses a firm kiss into Misha’s bicep, then starts to laugh. 

Puzzled, Misha leans back and casts him a skeptical look. “Um…” he starts, but Jensen shakes his head.

“I can’t believe she called your wife,” he explains.

“Ah,” Misha answers. “Well, I, for one, am glad she did.” He reaches over and threads the fingers of one hand through Jensen’s hair. Jensen’s skin is warm and sweat-slick. Misha is struck by a sudden urge to taste it again, so he does, leaning up and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Jensen’s jaw. “Were you gonna tell me?”

Jensen laughs harder, like the absurdity of everything has come to a head and is bubbling out of him, finally. “How the hell do you have that conversation? ‘Hi, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I think I wanna fuck you. Sound good?’” 

Misha teases, “So someday you might actually fuck me?”

“Maybe. Probably. Yes. Shut up,” Jensen offers back. “Seriously, how do you have that conversation?”

“I don’t know. I would have said, ‘You’re beautiful, can I put your dick in my mouth?’”

That gets a huge guffaw out of Jensen, who moves to look at Misha. “Thank god we let the women do the talking, yeah?”

“They’re a hell of a lot smarter than us,” Misha confirms. 

Jensen leans over and bites Misha’s earlobe, then murmurs low in his ear, “I think I wanna fuck you.” 

Misha half-heartedly pushes Jensen’s face away, laughing.


End file.
